


The Marvelous Captain Carol and the Hala Star

by dentigerous



Category: Captain Marvel (Marvel Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1860s, Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Civil War II AU, F/M, Gen, Ironclads, Pirate AU, Reconstruction era, Sailing, Tallships, War Marvel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-08 04:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12247251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentigerous/pseuds/dentigerous
Summary: The year is 1868, just a few years after the American Civil War split the nation. Carol Danvers, a former blockade runner for the Union Army, has turned pirate, and spent the past two years in the Caribbean. When she is spotted off the Charleston coast, Rear Admiral Stark sends his best Captain, the officer James Rhodes, after her, leveling charges of treason against his former ally. But in the open ocean, an ironclad steamer is no match for the speed of a masted tallship.Carol can run, but will she hide?Follow theHala Starand theWar Machineas they chase each other down the East Coast. What allies will she gain, what tricks will she employ? A pirate tale that includes love, betrayal, and honor on the high seas.





	1. The Return

Off the coast of South Carolina, the late summer breeze was bright and beautiful. Carol faced southerly, closing her eyes as it pushed her short hair back off her tanned face. She grinned and turned back to the deck, watching her crew taking care of the ship. A few crewmates were walking around, coiling lines, and someone had brought out a mop, making an industrious effort to clean the teak.

They were making their way up the coastline, having had an excellent run of luck in the Caribbean, and looking forward to spending well-earned cash in Charleston. The _Hala Star_ was far too conspicuous to dock in the main city port, but there were plenty of small inlets and bays surrounding the city that would be secluded enough for her purpose. Carol had no doubt that Ulysses would be able to find a protected harbor away from prying eyes.

The _Star_ was an incredibly fast schooner, outfitted with gunnery port on both sides of her beam, and she happened to be one of the fastest ships Carol had ever had the pleasure of commanding. Only one ship had ever matched it, the brigantine _Patriot_ ; but last Carol heard, it had been sunk during the destructive Civil War that had sent her privateer crew south.

All this meant that the _Hala Sar_ had long been unmatched on the oceans, and left Carol proud enough to challenge all who might want to try for her ship’s hard-earned laurels.

Carol had her letters of marque from the Union, but doubted they would be of any good now that the war was over. The age of privateers was ending, a fact made even more obvious by the advent of the ironclads and steamships that had so dominated the recent naval battles. During the conflict, the _Hala Star_ had had some decent success interrupting shipments to the Confederacy, but Carol had her own code, and some Union shipments out of the North never reached their intended destinations.

Jean-Paul, the man who frequently spent time in the bird’s nest, stood up and pointed. He yelled down to Carol, who could barely hear him, but he made a gesture that indicated he saw a deep entrance.

With no delay, Carol called her crew to order.

“Up and at it, boys!” She yelled, in a voice that only a colonel’s daughter could make carry over the low waves and wind. Her crew immediately got to work, but not before Puck slipped the dice into his pocket nearly as fast as he took Walter’s money from the deck.

Ulysses made his way to the captain’s bay, and Carol glanced over at him, eyebrows up.

“What do you think?”

“A safe harbor never stays safe for long,” the young man said cryptically, his almost perpetually blood-shot eyes scanning the coastline as the _Star_ turned under Carol’s hand. The sails slowly shifted, filling with the southern breeze.

“Drop the foresail! Bring the topsail in!” Carol pulled Ulysses in front of the wheel, walking across the deck and making sure that everything was getting put away properly. Other crew had the topsail completely under control, and most of the rigging was easy enough to pull in. The boat slowed as they went on a reach into the shore.

“Small jibs next!” Even as she barked the order, she was there herself, immediately pulling down the bright red flying jib alone.

If there was anything she loved it was sailing, flying along the water, knowing everything that her boat was doing, everything that it could do. The sails were her hands, the teak deck her bones, the water that seeped into cabins her blood. It was all her, a breathing, beating thing, and it was as necessary as air.

Between Ulysses’ capable hands and Jean-Paul’s sharp eyes, the _Hala Star_ made its way slowly into the deep port. Their boat had a tapered hull that went down into its leaden-weighted keel. It was a good boat for shallow ports and fast escapes, and it was easy to cast an anchor off the bow and settle into a small harbor.

Carol grinned as she looked around the bay, pleased with the way that they managed to nestle right into the Folly River with not a single building in sight. They were close to Fort Sumter, true, but at her last report it was under heavy gunfire and would not last long. Perhaps she would manage to get close enough to spit on a grave or two.

“Who’s the first to shore, Captain?”

“Make sure Puck gets the first round at McCrady’s, the man barely shuts up long enough to eat for all his going on.”

Carol herself was uninterested in returning to Charleston. She might sneak into town just to have a moment alone at a bar, but she could never stand dry land very long.

Her first mate, who went only by Brand and had managed to make her hair almost green by way of some sort of seaweed poultice, nodded and made a tally on a small notebook that she seemed to carry around with her always. Carol often wondered how Brand managed to preserve the paper pages amongst all the dangers living at sea provided, but refused to ask, fearful that it might inflate Brand’s pride.

“I’ll also attend the local traders, should we request anything special?”

“Bread that never spoils, meat that never rots, and…” Carol glanced away from her boat to flash a very jaunty smile at her second in command. “Lots of peaches.”

Brand nodded and made a mark in her book.

“I’ll see what we can acquire, Captain.”

“Let’s make this a quick stop. Any mates not back by our third dawn will be left!” Carol called out, turning again to the canvas that was being put away. “Quick work means mistakes!” Carol ordered, eyeing Chyel and Jean-Paul, who were commonly close as they folded the sails.

Chyel laughed and Jean-Paul had the wherewithal to at least pretend to look ashamed of himself. The other couples on board weren’t carrying on in nearly so obvious a fashion, and Carol found herself vaguely annoyed and slightly jealous. She elected to ignore it entirely and looked back to her second.

Brand, still writing in her notebook, barely looked up as Carol huffed and walked around to peek over her shoulder. Lines of calculations and lists, outlining enough food to last nearly three months at sea.

“What, are we preparing to cross the ocean?”

“Should the whim strike, I would like to be ready. We have the money, and the Union dollar is finally worth something in this town,” Brand snapped, and then turned a page where a delicately laid schedule outlined shore leave and shuttle transportation. Looking over these notes, Carol sighed.

“I could kiss you right now.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t, Captain.”

Carol stepped back, chuckling under her breath as Brand continued reviewing her notes, totally nonplussed by her captain’s behavior. By the deck rails, Carol began to coil lines, preferring menial work over judging the ship’s accounting, leaving that to her green-haired first mate.

Her crew began to line up to ask for the day’s leave, and she dutifully responded, granting leave for a full day, expecting them back to relieve their mates. It was more of a ceremony than formality, and Carol played along well. While she was the authority on the boat, if the crew really wanted, they could leave at any time.

Carol doubted anyone would actually do so; her boat was wicked, and her hull full of privated treasure and goods. Carol’s leadership was almost never disputed, and the _Star_ always managed to find fair wind and slower sails on the horizon. It was a rich life.

As she watched Chyel and Jean-Paul with their heads bent together as they walked along the beach towards Charleston, she noticed movement along the southern shore. She turned, and charging down the riverbanks was a small herd of ponies; dun-colored, with black manes and socks, heavy faced and short. They beat along the riverbank, headed towards the ocean.

Walking along her ship, she climbed up to the small quarterdeck -- the raised platform on the stern of the _Star_ that housed the captain’s cabin and the steering wheel that went to the tiller mechanism below. Leaning over the rail, she crossed her arms, smiling as the horses continued to stampede across the dunes. A black mare pulled ahead, and then a dappled stallion nipped at her neck and shot ahead. The stallion turned, and the herd went with him, down the beach and away from the _Hala Star._

Following the line of the horses, who were little more than bucking specs in the distance, Carol saw a small thread of smoke streaming upwards. She had thought that this area was still unsettled, but it seemed that the war had driven inhabitants of the Confederacy even to the marshiest edges of their lands. She pressed her mouth but didn’t move or alert her crew.

Infamous as assumptions tended to be, Carol was sure that three days at port wouldn’t endanger her too much. She sighed and then shook her head, turning away from the evidence of a settlement, making her way down the deck. There was work to do.

* * *

 

The first two days went without a word from any sort of authorities. Carol decided that the War had been good to her in more ways than one, and was not keen on identifying the colors the local brass flew. Better if they never knew the _Hala Star_ and her crew had kept port on South Carolina soil. It was hard to keep their profiles low when the Canadien men began speaking in some strange bastardization of French and English, causing more hatred in Charleston than Carol would have thought possible.

The first day on shore, her largest crewman, Walter Lang, had to drag Puck away from a particularly brutal fistfight, and Carol had deemed the brute unworthy of company for the remainder of the visit, and confined Puck to his quarters until they had returned to sea. The rather small man was entirely unsurprised by this, but that did not stop him from voicing his opinion, loudly, for two hours after.

The next day, as noon was approaching, Carol was making sure the _Star_ was ready to leave at the next dawn’s light when Brand approached the captain again.

“You haven’t taken your leave.”

“I don’t need to take leave,” Carol responded, not looking over at Brand, and instead leaning over the rails and directing Aurora and Hudson as they made minor cosmetic adjustments to the hull. The _Star_ had been repaired not three months before, and under Aurora’s steady hand there were now bright flashes spanning from bow to stern, bright red sharps detailed about a foot above the waterline.

“I would recommend, captain, that you take your leave.” Brand’s voice was unwavering, that of a crewman used to the unreasonable demands of a ship. “This is the largest city we’ve stopped at in a while, and I’m sure that you would welcome a diversion, were you truly removed from your vessel.”

“Trying to get rid of me, Brand?”

“Sir, I think you know that is exactly what I’m trying to do.”

“Fine!” Carol huffed, smirking slightly as she pushed away from the railing. “Make sure they keep it on a straight line!”

Brand shook her head, calling after Carol, “I’m sure they don’t need my supervision!”

Carol let Brand have the last word, but made a rude gesture above her head as she went into her quarters. She should wear something that wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows, but it wasn’t as if she had any gowns around.

Instead, she bound her chest tightly, found some hair oil and slicked her hair back in a popular style, creating a sharp side part using her fingers and then smoothing it all down. She quickly put on clothing she had taken from the last ship, hoping that it was at the very least made within the last century and stylish enough that she wouldn’t be noticed for having improper streetwear.

All that done, she finally made her way into the small boat, was transported to shore, and started walking into town. The Carolina dunes were soft and almost gray in the dull light of the morning, and she held her hand out along the rushes, the small burrs catching at the fabric of her pants. It was sweet, almost, the ease with which things clung and then let go. Harsh and insistent, but willing to wait for another breeze, another leg.

It didn’t take long for her to find a road, and didn’t take that much longer for her to find Charleston. She had a wallet full of notes, and was thrilled to find from a very helpful newsboy that the currency was good in all parts of Charleston.

She strolled into the city as if she owned it, her shoulders back, making sure that her hips remained straight, that her normal careless roll was tempered into a gait that was more masculine. It wasn’t too difficult, but required a little bit of concentration. She could feel the eyes of young ladies following her, and she wondered if they were admiring or suspicious.

It was late afternoon, and she managed to find a cool, dark restaurant that would serve her a hearty sandwich. There was something so nourishing about fresh bread, and Carol had to resist groaning aloud at her first bite. Maybe Brand had a point; dry land was at least good for something. The meat was still steaming as she dug into the chicken sandwich, and she sucked at the tomato juices as they ran down her fingers. It was bliss. She considered buying a second, but decided to take a walk to digest. She paid and left, blinking as she entered back into the harsh sunlight.

As she continued her walk she noticed that some theme restaurants had made it into Charleston, and she passed a beefsteak dungeon on her way around the block. She was walking freely as a man, and thrilled that this trick continued to play dice. Carol had perfected this ruse in St. Augustine, and was happy to see that by lowering her voice and keeping her head down she managed without any interference.

During her walk, she took a quick trip to the public market, examining the fruit and woven trinkets. The coins felt heavy in her pocket, but she knew that such small baubles were easily lost or broken at sea, and weren’t worth the trouble. Later in the day she found a rowdy bar, and set herself up in a small corner booth. She made it look like she wasn’t expecting company and spent a few hours nursing a couple beers and watching the Charleston residents filter in and out.

The bar was far enough away from the rich part of town that freemen were sitting at the counter. They had congregated in enough numbers that gave them safety from the white residents of Charleston and those interlopers in the bar. Carol, who had fault for the Union, and had her own more personal, intimate reasons to preserve the lives of all men, was happy to see it. At least some things were changing.

Carol felt a sudden, small pang of guilt for the Union boats she had destroyed in the midst of the conflict. Her motivations for doing so weren’t entirely base, but there was a vengeful streak to her that she couldn’t deny. The idea of injustice burned her, and hearing of the rise of Stark among the ranks of the Union made her blood boil. The man was a hypocrite and as self-righteous as the pope.

While she was fuming, a flutter of skirts distracted her enough to make her look up. She smiled at the pretty woman who had decided to sit next to her in the booth, obviously assuming that she was both loaded and a man unengaged with any other women. Carol had to admit, thoroughly entertained and glad that her broad shoulders were attractive to someone, the wench wasn’t entirely wrong.

She flashed a note a the bar and got another round, smiling at the young lady as she slid closer and asked, a little breathless, what brought such a fine man into this part of town.

Carol smirked. Some things, she thought, never changed.

The woman had been completely fooled by the ruse, and Carol had even deepened her voice for the occasion. She held her arm lightly around the Maddie’s shoulders, completely comfortable playing this part. It was no small entertainment, and although the captain found immense pleasure in the _Star_ , there was nothing quite like a trick to get her heart jumping.

It had been nearly thirty minutes, and Carol was almost tired of the game when another figure stood in between the booth and the main lamp light of the main hall. Carol sighed, expecting to see a jealous beau or jilted John (for the woman had intimated that she was a prostitute, and Carol was seconds away from offering her a position on board the _Star_ ), and instead found herself delightfully surprised.

“Commander Rhodes!”

“Actually,” he said, giving the whore an eye that made her quickly slink away, a feat of will that both impressed and annoyed Carol, “it’s Captain now.”

“So we find ourselves equals on all fronts,” Carol grinned, putting her chin in her hand. “What a delight.”

“Don’t be so hasty,” James Rhodes sat down in the booth, pushing away the half empty tankard that Maddie had been nursing. “You are, if I recall correctly, an unranked pirate, and a scoundrel.”

“Oh, Jim, you really know how to romance a girl.”

James Rhodes, a freeman in the Union Navy, had proven himself over and over an admirable adversary and a delightful companion. Carol admired his form without shame, and Rhodes, to his ever-mounting credit, didn’t spare a glance towards Carol’s getup.

“You’ve been spotted,” Rhodes said, frowning slightly, lowering his voice. He took a deep breath and watched Carol’s face. Somehow she always managed to hold a mischievous smirk, seemingly without any effort at all. “Carol, this is serious.”

“Spotted by you? Or by someone else?”

“There’s been a missive sent to Stark-”

Her smirk disappeared faster than a breeze in Bermuda. “The utter bastard.”

Rhodes pressed his mouth and said nothing for a long moment. After a few minutes he took a deep breath before he continued. “He will know of your port within the day, and I will be sent to pursue within two.”

“Is this a warning or a challenge, Jim?”

“Carol, please.” Rhodes sounded weary, and, more than that, his words held a distinct sadness. The way that he said her name made Carol shift in her seat, uncomfortable.

“He means to take you in. The attacks on Union ships last year-”

“His ships! _His_ ships, Captain,” Carol hissed, leaning forward. “Carrying _his_ cargo, _his_ machines. He was the reason I prevented those ships from returning to port.”

“And the men,” Rhodes turned towards her, eyebrows up. “What of them?”

“Collateral damage. We were in a theater of war, some players must leave the stage.” Carol’s voice was unwavering, absolute in her belief. “The number of men I killed is paltry compared to the lives Stark has taken.”

Rhodes shook his head, finally taking a hefty drink of the beer that the Maddie had left. “That doesn’t matter.”

“It is all that matters,” Carol shifted forwards again, her knees pressed against Rhodes’. “You can’t tell me that he is a more respectable man for his actions. That he is now a more honorable officer since the war. His actions are that of a monster, his machines equally monstrous.”

Rhodes sighed and shook his head again. “I cannot agree. Let us leave it.”

“Fine.” She glared at him one more time before facing forward, finishing her beer and shaking her head. “Fine.”

“Regardless of the circumstances, the fact remains that he wants you apprehended.”

“And will you be the man to do it, Captain?”

“You’ll have a head start.”

Ah, here it was, the crux of the matter, the soft warning that Carol had been expecting, but not from this man. This man who had been her friend for so many years, who had smiled at her, had helped find her a Canadien crew and a fast schooner, who had kissed her goodbye nearly a decade ago.

“You want me to run.”

Rhodes met her glare with an even stare and nodded firmly. “I want you to live.”

“Running isn’t living,” she snapped, immediately angry. “Running is for cowards.”

“Pirates run away all the time,” Rhodes said, reminding her gently of the title that she often proudly claimed.

“I do not run,” Carol’s voice raised in anger, and she took a deep breath before sitting back, crossing her arms. Rhodes smiled a little and shook his head, looking at the crowd that had filled the bar.

“If you’re going to sit here and insult my profession, the least you can do is fill my flagon,” she grumbled, kicking the table and shaking the empty mugs. Sighing, Rhodes stood and slid out of the booth.

“You certainly have more purchasing power than I do,” he responded, but Carol just rolled her eyes and made a flippant gesture. Giving up, Rhodes made his way to the bar, waiting patiently as the bartender served other guests before finally getting to the Captain.

If Carol was going to slip away, now would be her chance. She knew that only a couple members of her crew were still in Charleston and she had a good idea about what haunts they would be keeping to. She could leave now, in the freshening night breeze, and be nestled in the safety of the foreign Spaniard Habana port within the week.

It seemed as if, in the moments that James Rhodes spent leaning against the counter, he was giving her that chance. He knew what she was thinking, all the little ticks and explorations going on in her head as she went through her scenarios. Carol didn’t move.

When Rhodes turned back to the booth, he met Carol’s gaze with one equally steady and resolved. He walked back, but didn’t sit down, instead placing the beer in front of Carol. He nodded once, smiled, and then took another long drink of his beer.

“So this is how it’s going to be.”

“This is how it has to be,” Carol said quietly, taking her drink and sipping it, watching Rhodes over the top of her flagon.

Rhodes twisted his mouth, hand in his pocket, looking over Carol as she sat back. He made a huffing noise and looked down for a few seconds before looking back up to catch her bright eyes. “Have you found a place to rest for the night?”

“I hadn’t considered sleeping.”

Rhodes smiled a little and shrugged. “Ah, well. We might be of the same mind.”

Carol grinned, finished her beer in a sweeping motion and left a note on the table. She shifted and got out of the booth, standing nearly toe to toe with the just barely taller man. He gestured with his head and put his half-drunk beer on the table before leading Carol out of the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lurvly beta @smolhombre who is trying to get my use of sailing jargon down to a minimum. This fic is complete, and as it is polished and buffed to shipshape shine, it will be posted! I hope to see it up within a week or so. If you see any words or any sailing terms you don't know, let me know and I can clarify. Hope you enjoy!


	2. Allies and Enemies

 

 

Carol, unbound, undressed, and exhausted, lay next to James Rhodes in a small hotel room in some darkened corner of Charleston. Despite his proclamation, he had eventually fallen asleep without fear or inhibition. Her own conscience was not so eager to allow her rest.

She sighed, tucked her arm to her chest and tried to relax again, pressing her face into the scratchy pillow. As she shifted, Rhodes, still sleep, turned over to face her, putting their faces nose to nose. Carol was caught off guard, full of something that was as overwhelming as a storm’s wave. Salt water stuck to her eyes and she turned away, closing her eyes tightly and ignoring the need that clawed at her chest.

What kind of life could she have without the sea? Without the fear, the fight, the thrill of her first love. The ocean called to her, stronger than any man, stronger than even James Rhodes. It was not an impossible decision, and it would not be the last time that she chose life on board the _Hala Star_ over life on any kind on shore.

Even if that life might have included James.

Carefully, her footfalls as light as a cat’s, she dressed and made her way out of the small room. If James Rhodes awoke, she did not know it, and he did not stop her.

Carol stole a horse with only a dash of compunction, and rode hard towards the _Hala Star_. Immediately she awoke the crew and set them to work. Brand counted heads, and after determining that all their people were aboard, gave the nod to Carol.

The _Star_ , true to her captain, shot out from the Folly River with a speed that matched any ironclad, and bested most.

“How far are we going?” Brand asked, having been alerted to the incoming dangers. Carol didn’t consider their Naval attache much to worry over, but it was obvious that Brand held different issue.

“The keys,” Carol replied, a smirk on her mouth.

“And then?”

Carol shrugged and if Brand was one slip less composed, Carol would have bet that her second would have screamed in frustration. Instead Brand set her jaw, took a deep breath, and turned to watch the spray from the waves brush against the jibs.

“Have you given thought to our purpose since the surrender?”

“Not a whit’s worth,” Carol said happily, grinning, her hand light on the wheel of her ship.

“Perhaps it’s worth consideration, Captain,” Brand said, not turning back to the captain.

“Oh, aye,” Carol chuckled, “perhaps.”

“You are entirely too comfortable with the idea of an American Ironclad on our stern,” Brand said tersely.

“We have time.”

“What makes you so sure?” Brand snapped, turning back to Carol, a frown marring her usually stoic features. “Captain, we could have less than two hours between us and a steamer with incredible firepower and the authority to destroy us. Shouldn’t we at least explore another option?”

“If you have an idea, speak now.” Carol’s voice lost its jaunty fervor and turned into something flat and serious.

“We go further south,” Brand suggested, gesturing ahead to the bow. “The Caribbean still has unmarked ports, unknown isles. The world is getting smaller, Captain, the sea decidedly more so. We could head to the coast of Argentina, of Chile, or even India-”

“What would I do in India?”

“We could be traders. Our ship would weather the routes well, we could make a good living.” Brand insisted. “We could still be sailors, it would still be our life.”

“How long until our past reaches us? We cannot run from what we have already done.”

Brand sighed and shook her head. “But running right into the arms of danger? Sailing into a storm will never result in an easy ride.”

“I’m not the captain of the _Star_ to take it easy, Brand.”

“It’s not as if making a life anywhere is easy, Captain.” Brand said evenly, still too proud to beg. “There will be challenges anywhere we go.”

Carol huffed and didn’t respond. Brand waited patiently for about a minute before taking a step back and walking along deck. Watching her second in command, Carol knew that she was being selfish, but her own pride was a ball and chain, and it would eventually drown her.

She sighed, tilting her head up again to watch the thinning clouds. The further from shore, the fewer there would be.They would have little shade until they were closer to Florida. Secretly, Carol hoped that James would wait until he had official orders to follow her. His vessel would be able to go directly south, into the tradewinds, and she had to tack upwind to keep air in her sails.

It was the travesty of the steam engine. No skill required. You just pointed your bow wherever you wanted to go and let machines do all the work.

The captain didn’t entertain the idea of what would happen if James decided to leave port immediately. He might not be able to follow her trail exactly, but there were only so many ports in Florida where she could

dock. Even fewer were the ports where the _Hala Star_ would remain unseen or unmentioned.

No matter what, the iron-willed Captain Rhodes would make for the keys. Carol just needed to get there before he did.

* * *

 

Back in Charleston, James Rhodes was actually pleased to see that Carol had left his money and his dignity, and instead of drawing out a goodbye or making an excuse, had slipped out in the night. It was always a little disappointing, but as ever with Carol, he was slightly thrilled by it as well.

The woman was often unpredictable, but at the very least could always be counted on to return to the boat before the tide.

Rhodes dressed, checked his papers and his wallet, made sure that his officers’ insignia was visible on his jacket, heading towards the docks. It would be too late to catch sight of the _Hala Star_ , but he could always try to see if he could glimpse her red-canvas jibs. He had told Carol before about the dangers of being too flashy, but either she didn’t care for his tone or refused to see sense, and had never changed the colors of her foresails.

Well, he thought, tilting his head up as the gulls flew overhead. He did like the cut of her jib.

He arrived at his own ship and surveyed the ironclad with pride. It was one of the fastest battleships out of the American foundries, powered by a steam engine designed by none other than the famed Rear Admiral Anthony Stark. It was a marvel of modern engineering, driven by the ingenuity of a man scorned for his passions when his inheritance should have been enough of a hobby.

Rhodes smiled as he looked over the _War Machine_ ; newly minted, untried in battle, with a top speed that had not ever been pushed to the brink of her power. He had no doubt that she was the fastest ship in the ironclad navy, at least for now.

Instead of ordering his crew to attention, Rhodes turned and headed towards one of the buildings in the French Quarter. The morning was exceptionally bright, the sun just beginning to peek along the horizon of the bay. He got to a small public park and sat down, watching the fishing vessels returning to port and leaving to harvest the in-season crabs.

He couldn’t fault Carol for what she did during the Civil War. He knew the cargo those Union ships carried, and he couldn’t say that he thought what she had done was wrong. There had to have been other ways, other methods, but Carol was, as ever, extremely effective and unwilling to compromise.

James had an inkling of where Carol was heading, but he was in no rush to catch her. She had enough honor about her to keep away from all but the most tempting civilian vessels, and had made enough money during the war to ensure that she wouldn’t need to steal anything anytime soon. With all the blockade runners still operational in major ports, it would be foolish for her to even try.

So Captain Rhodes relaxed, watched the sun rise, and was content to wait until another man forced his hand.

* * *

 

Rear Admiral Anthony Stark received the missive from the South Carolina Naval squadron three days after the _Hala Star_ made port in Charleston. He cursed his luck, re-read the letter, and then sat down heavily. She would never stay near such a populated city for any duration. At this point, Carol was a far cry and a long shot away.

He had been trying to chase down Carol Danvers for the past three years, ever since it was reported that she had gone rogue during the last year of the war. The blockade runners around the Georgia and Florida ports had given Stark reason to believe that Carol had interrupted at least three shipments northward.There were other ships he suspected her to have had a hand in disappearing, but no evidence. The recovered crew of any of the ships had a hard time identifying her.

It was completely frustrating, but the only course of action that Stark could think of was sending a directive to the battleship _War Machine_ he knew to be currently stationed in that district. James Rhodes had some kind of relationship with Danvers, and although Stark had never pressed, he relied on Jim for advice on her whereabouts and actions. While Danvers always seemed to be just out of reach, Jim always seemed to be able to catch up to her quicker than anyone else.

As he set the letter down on his desk, his hand passed over a patent that he had developed for the newest version of steam engine, one that would power his newest warship, preemptively named the _Arc._ It would be able to power a ship larger and faster and heavier than anything at sea. The _Arc_ would pave the way forward, and American ironclads would be the naval power the world over.

All of his research funded by the Jericho guns he had sold in the early 60s, and he was now reaping the rewards of that development. He pushed the _Arc_ ’s blueprints to the side, sealed the letter to Jim, and quickly moved on.

He handed off the directive to his ensign, and walked over to the window that overlooked the waterway where his great contrivance was under construction. All it needed was an engine and some more interior work. It was nearly done. He took a deep breath, watching the workers for a few minutes before turning and sitting at his desk again.

At the very least he could put pressure on the construction crew to finish what they could. While the _War Machine_ was a premier vessel in the Navy, there was always that little bit of doubt when it came to Danvers’ ship.

* * *

 

There were some parts of the keys that were still wild. Islands held by men of ill repute and women who knew how to handle them. True, the Key West had been taken over by the military, but the naval presence there had diminished. The area was still unspoilt and Carol loved it, felt free in the beautiful blue shallows and the bright jeweled islands inset into the ocean.

Gorgeous. She drove her ship into port without fear, seeing familiar barks nearby. There floated the _Amiirad Shuri_ , a brig captained by the self-titled Prince of Panthers, the feared and infamous T’Challa. Near that was the extreme clipper _Milano_ , something that was almost as fast as the _Star_ , but not nearly as pretty. She could always hear that party from across the bay. Folding the sails under her, Carol made a mental note to avoid Captain Quill if she spotted him on shore, as he was bound to be in a foul mood and either possessed by drink or the arms of a woman.

Either way, not the kind of man that Danvers wanted to run into while she had a bounty on her head.

As she anchored and made her boat entirely proper, she spotted the frigate _Attilan Queen_ make way along the horizon. Sighing, she shook her head and made her rounds. It seemed as if the entire gang had made their way ashore of the key. The sun was metaphorically setting on the efficacy of privateers and blockade runners, and she and her fellow captains would either be swept away or they would make their final, explosive mark. Carol wasn’t sure where she would end up, but at least she had company.

Danvers and some of her crew went ashore, and quickly found the rowdiest bar on the island. All the old guard--Quill, T’Challa, Medusa--each one knew the small chalk signs and had notes passed to them, and they made their way to the back of the Stockade.

T’Challa was first, accompanied by two of his crew. Many wondered how he had managed to be so successful for so long with a crew made up entirely of women, but the _Dora Milaje_ , as they called themselves, never wavered.

Quill stumbled in as drunk as expected, but armed to the teeth. His retinue included the feared egyptian, Gamora, and the Maori, Darak, who was tattooed from his entire body over. Quill had pushed the _Milano_ around the world more times than any of them, gathering up his deadly, rag-tag crew as he went.

Last to arrive was Medusa, who entered the bar as if it were a royal ball and she the presiding Queen. She came in unaccompanied, and did not look anywhere but the table where Carol and the other pirates were sitting. Sweeping up to the company, she sat down and addressed Carol directly.

“What is the meaning of this.”

Carol grinned, spread her hands and sat back. “I’m just here to give you some warning.”

“We paid off Jefferson, but the bribe will not cover _you_.”

Carol’s eyebrows shot up and she glanced over at T’Challa, who nodded once.

“Yeah, I get it,” she admitted, taking a deep swig of her beer. “But I figured I’d be the one to warn you, my fair brethren.”

Quill blinked slowly and then pointed at Medusa. “She’s a lady, Carol.”

“If only we could all be as drunk as you,” Medusa sighed, tossing her long red hair over her shoulder.

“The warships are coming,” Carol said, lowering her voice and leaning in. “I have on good authority that James Rhodes and Samuel Alexander are going to be arriving in the Keys within two days. You best make yourselves scarce before they arrive, because they will be taking nary a copper from the Fort.”

T’Challa frowned. “Alexander? Where is Wilson?”

Carol gestured. “Not on my tail, and that’s a relief. In the right wind, the _Redwing_ flies faster than most steamers.”

“Hmm,” Quill spoke up, suddenly serious and intent, his blue eyes piercing Carol’s “have you a notion of the battleships these men command?”

“I saw Rhodes’ ship in Charleston,” Carol said, and immediately the other captains leaned in to hear. “Heavily gunned, lightly manned, and armored on the sides. A length approaching three hundred feet, a draw of twenty-five, the beam reaches sixty feet at it’s widest. It’s christened the _War Machine_.”

“That’s one hell of a ship, Danvers,” Quill growled. “That monstrosity floats?”

“I’ll do you one better, that thing is charging down here this very second, intent on capturing the last of us, down a man.” Carol’s voice was sharp, stern and unwavering. “We might stand a chance if we cut and run now, but how long until Rhodes or Alexander hunts us down? We’re targets.”

Quill hiccoughed and sat back, the focus gone. “I’m going to raid the China sea. Get myself a chinese junk. Dress in silk.”

Carol pressed onwards; “We need to take a stand, in these waters, while we still have a chance for victory.”

“I will not,” T’Challa said firmly. “I have no bounty on my head or my ship. I will return to my country.”

Carol opened her mouth to protest, but T’Challa held up a hand. “Do not try to convince me. My father is old, and I have received word that he is becoming weak with age. Should I wish to assume my throne, I need to be in my homeland.”

Quill blinked, looked at Medusa, Carol, and then finally T’Challa. “I thought ‘Prince’ was just a moniker.”

“The panther is the symbol of my royal status,” T’Challa said, his voice measured.

The ragamuffin captain shrugged and took another swig of his beer. “I just thought you really liked cats.”

If T’Challa was offended, he said nothing, but turned towards Carol instead. “I will not aid in your capture, Danvers, but I will not pay the price of your sins. This is a debt you must settle on your own.”

“This is bigger than what I did during the war,” Carol protested. “This is the end of life as we know it. The end of our lives.”

“The best way to bring down an Ironclad is to ram them,” Medusa said, crossing her arms. “And I won’t be sacrificing the _Queen_ on such a folly.”

“Not the only way.” Carol’s voice was insistent and urgent, and she held the entire table captive. “These ships can’t turn quickly, they still use muzzle-loading guns despite the time it takes to reload, and the distance to engagement hasn’t increased since the battleships slapped iron on their sides.”

“Yet it is the armor that concerns me.”

Carol made a noise, finished her beer, and looked back to Medusa. “You have a ship that has managed to disappear more than I have.”

The captain of the _Attilan Queen_ looked pleased with herself. Quill had managed to refrain from dozing off, and he mumbled under his breath.

“You have something to say, _rogue_?” Medusa turned towards Peter Quill, eyebrows up.

“You haven’t told her ‘bout the new ammo you got.” Quill fixed Medusa with a clear eye, and then glared at T’Challa. “And you haven’t told her where the...armor-piercing ammo comes from.”

Carol froze in her seat. Medusa glared at Quill with an intense fury, and T’Challa, to his credit, did not move a single breadth. Staying silent, Carol waited.

T’Challa eventually turned towards her. “Since ‘62 I have burdened my country with the task of creating a new kind of cartridge. A new kind of weapon to defend against these ironclads. Wakanda is land-locked, we have no need for a navy. But ammunition is less obvious, a more subtle way to defend our lands, and for me to defend myself.”

“Get to the point, _your highness_ ,” Carol managed to spit out, almost without venom.

“My country has produced a stock shot of the highest caliber, and produced breech-loading guns for it. Iron is brittle, and my new design will crack armor with ease.”

“Have you tested this?”

Quill pointed at Medusa, “She has.”

“I will speak to the efficacy of his guns, the safety of their loading, the sureness of their aim, and the damage inflicted.” Medusa said, miraculously looking both utterly disinterested and offended by Quill’s finger at the same time.

“Were you willing to let me go into battle against two ironclads so unsuited?” Carol demanded, glaring at T’Challa. “This is akin to betrayal, after all we have been through.”

“Two small rescues does not marry us,” T’Challa said, frowning. “As a sign of goodwill, I will give your ship four guns. I can spare twenty rounds of the vibrantic ammo, but that’s it. That is the most I will do, and do not dare ask me for more.”

Quill snorted, shaking his head. “Wakanda will soon rise above us all.”

T’Challa glared at him and then stood up. “You cannot comprehend a nation that does not seek imperial gain, but looks first to the wellfare of its own people. I will deliver the _gifts-_ ” the word was stressed as he turned back towards Carol, who tried to school her face into some kind of amicability “to your ship tonight. I will leave at dawn.”

He stepped away from the table, and Carol stood as well, offering her hand for T’Challa to shake. She smiled, and it was hard not to be charmed by her bright grin, her jaunty look, the set of her shoulders. T’Challa nodded once and shook her hand.

“I enjoyed knowing you, Carol Danvers.”

Carol nodded, chuckled, and put her hands on her hips. “Godspeed, Prince of Panthers.”

T’Challa left, flanked by the dangerous-looking woman with whom he had appeared, and Carol sat down, faced with her two remaining allies.

Three ships, two small and fast, the third broad, intimidating and well-gunned, against two of the Navy’s best battle cruisers. Carol almost felt bad for the ironclads.


	3. Saviors

 

Ironclads were not made for travelling long distances. They tended to run afoul of the sea in ways that tallships managed to avoid, and Rhodes was feeling that frustration keenly as the _War Machine_ and the _Nova_ docked in Saint Augustine’s port for repairs.

He could hit something. Here he was, less than a day’s trip away from the Key where Carol would surely run to, and he was laid up in port over an engine malfunction. Rhodes didn’t look kindly on the sailing ships, the frigates and the brigs he had trained on, but it was events like this when he wished for simpler times.

Rhodes settled on kicking the shell of his ship, and left the repairs to the dockworkers who knew more about steam engines than Rhodes cared to learn. He had other things on his mind.

He walked through the Fort at St. Augustine and went into the town proper in search of a reputable restaurant. Before he went in, he made sure that his jacket was in perfect order, that his brass was shined and his uniform appeared impeccable. He didn’t want to give anyone an excuse to call him out or look twice. He was an officer of the American Navy, and that, at least would protect him.

If not, he had a heavy pistol and sure aim, and the benefaction of a rich and powerful gentleman who would make any bodies disappear quietly and with few questions.

It might not be ideal, but not many things in James Rhodes’ life had been. He just made do.

His hot meal arrived in a timely fashion, but he didn’t pay it much attention. While he was looking over the local paper, he was still glancing around. It wasn’t paranoia; he was simply a man who never wanted to be caught off guard. After a few bites of the dish, he finally looked away from a back-corner booth and attended his paper.

“Good stew?”

He started as Carol, in her men’s getup, sat down next to him. She was grinning, looking less like a woman on the run and more like a man who had just gotten lucky at a card table. “Heard the meat here is unspoiled. Garden vegetables plucked from the back yard.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Rhodes hissed, turning back to his paper in a show of defiance. He would not be swayed by her charm. “No doubt you’ve heard the order.”

“I even read a copy. Boot-quaking verbiage, really terrifying stuff. Stark should try writing a novel for his next career move.” Carol gestured for the barmaid, who brought over a flagon of the local brew.

“This is not the time, Carol.”

Carol huffed, taking a sip of the beer and then glaring at Rhodes. She eyed him up, unflinching and unafraid.

“This is the last time, then.”

Rhodes set his jaw and glanced up at Carol. He nodded once, and then went back to his paper. “I can’t save you anymore.”

Immediately Carol pushed herself away from the table and stood up. She leaned down, slamming her hand down on the newspaper, ripping it from his hands. “I will save myself,” she sneered, tossing the paper to the floor, “I do not need you.”

Looking up at her, Rhodes seemed almost sad. His expression only infuriated her more, and she set her jaw tightly until he shook his head and averted his eyes.

“For your sake, I hope so.”

Having nothing to say to that, Carol turned on her heel and left the building, leaving her drink untouched and Rhodes alone at his table.

Almost as soon as the door closed behind Carol, it opened again, and Samuel Alexander walked in. The young captain of the _Nova_ glanced behind him, looking vaguely disconcerted. Without sparing much of a look around the room, Alexander went directly to Rhodes’ table, frowning.

“I just saw a man who could pass for Danvers’ twin brother.”

Rhodes took a deep breath and raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“He did not catch your eye?” Alexander turned towards the door and then back to Rhodes before sitting down. “The likeness was uncanny.”

“A doppelganger,” Rhodes commented. “Or your mind is seeing pirates where there are only _patois_.”

Alexander shook his head and took the flagon, mistaking it for a courtesy. Rhodes didn’t correct him.

“The engineers have said they will be finished before noon tomorrow. We’ll have to wait another day before we can leave for the keys.”

Rhodes grimaced and nodded. Any advantage he might have had was surely gone. If Alexander knew this and was reporting so surely, then Carol knew it as well, and was either seeking to prolong the time until their departure, or was already flying down the coast to whatever band of miscreants she had managed to drum up.

He was headed towards a brutal fight. Even with both vessels at his command, Rhodes felt disadvantaged. He was possibly outnumbered and held absolutely no desire to truly harm his mark. Glancing at Alexander, he considered mentioning something, but the young man was intent on smoothing out the paper he had snatched off the ground. Perhaps it was best that the green captain not know the extent of his doubts.

After a few more minutes of food and drink, Rhodes made his way back to the ship. He had been intending to sleep on his options but was jerked unceremoniously into an alley and pushed against the wall.

“I am an officer of the-”

“God, be quiet,” Carol murmured, before kissing him hard, pressing him against the stone wall. Rhodes was surprised into stillness for less than a second before he put his hands on her hips and closed his eyes. He drew his hands upwards, checking for a gun or knife strapped under her garments, and found one blade, still secure against her binding.

He had to marvel again at her strength, to be able to so completely move him, and he must have made some kind of noise, because Carol chuckled, and pulled away, biting on his lower lip.

They stared at each other in the half-dark, their faces lit by a flickering lamplight. Carol’s smile faded slowly, and Rhodes reached up to push her short hair back. Taking a deep breath, Carol leaned in to kiss him again, and this time he wrapped his arms around her waist, turning her. Rhodes used his small height advantage to move her, one arm up by her head, the other clutched around her until she was against the wall.

He could feel her muscles under his hands, and it was stunning to him, amazing that a woman could be so strong and so unashamed of it. Her arms held him tightly, and he smiled again, leaning down to kiss her. James Rhodes realized that he couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to. She was powerful in so many ways.

Carol finally let him go and he smiled, nuzzling his face against her neck. She laughed, breathless, and pushed at his chest.

“We need to get off the street.”

“Why?” Rhodes asked, smirking, pushing her back against the wall of whatever building they were near, “you were so eager to get me here.”

“Jim, don’t be a fool,” she murmured.

“Are fools willing?”

“Aye, that’s what marks them.” Carol pushed him again. “The eager step towards danger, the jaunty fanfare of ignorance-”

“Are you going to lecture me or find me a room to continue my folly?”

“Ah, ever the charmer.” Carol laughed as she stepped back. She smirked, stuffing her hands in her pockets as she nearly skipped around him, making her way through Augustine’s streets.

Rhodes followed behind her, marvelling at the magnificent creature who was mere minutes from his arms. It was always her, just her. There was something incredible and charismatic and effortless about Carol, and James had never been able to pin her down long enough to define it. He would never quite know what it was in him that she liked, but was hardly about to question it. Theirs was a fleeting romance, something intimate, and sacred, a solitary handhold that stood in contrast to the world around them.

He would call it defiant, but everything about Carol was defiant. She was born to dare, to challenge, to stand resistant.

And God, he loved her for it.

* * *

Carol bribed the captain of a fast clipper headed to Fort Jefferson and was on board her own ship within two days, quite ahead of the ironclads.

She called her Alpha Crew to order on deck, pacing in front of them slowly.

“The challenge ahead of us is not merely a trial, but a crucible of final proportions. After this...we will not be able to return to the States...at least not on board the _Star_.”

Any chatter on deck stopped immediately at that. The crew remained staunch as Carol continued to speak.

“We will be facing the Navy’s fastest ironclads. The newest versions of the winning design. An unmatched model.” She grinned, eyebrows up, “But we have been unmatched as well. Unmarked in battle, faster than any steamer, more seaworthy than any navyman in the military. Our blood! Our ocean!”

There were a few cheers and Carol nodded, making a noise, holding her hand in a fist by her hip. “But our next fight will be different. It will be definitive, it will alter the course of our lives forever. I choose to fight! To make a stand, to fight for our right to survive, to defend the lives of innocents. What we did against the Union we did for the good of the people! Those the Union considered collateral we knew to be valuable! We know the cost of war, we know the price of the human life.

“For that we are hunted...I am hunted. And if you, any of you, wish to stay in port...I will not begrudge you that. Tonight will be our last night on anchor. If any of you stay on shore, I will look back on our time fondly, and with pride. I will harbor no ill will, no hard feelings.”

“We’re with you captain!” Aurora called out, and behind her Walter let out a gruff yell of agreement.

“Aye–With you, Carol!”

“Long aboard the _Hala Star_!”

“And rough seas to the rest!”

Cheering and yelling broke out, and Carol nodded once before turning away from her crew. Behind the crowd, Brand and Puck had brought out rum and cheap grog, just enough to make the crew happy, and they were distracted just long enough for Carol to disappear into her quarters.

Once there, she met Brand and Aurora, neither of whom had actually partaken in any drink. Carol nodded at them and then went over to her desk to gather up a package of maps. As Aurora helped spread them out, Brand tacked them down at the corners and found markers for boats, currents, and almanac-predicted breezes.

Carol made a noise, gesturing at the little blue cones that indicated wind. “The winds will come from the east. The almanac didn’t predict the warm waters.”

Brand nodded, changing the small indicators. “That’s good, we’ll have a straight run down to Cuba if we need to get out fast.”

“Aye, on a reach we’ll outpace even Hermes,” Aurora murmured.

“Aye,” Carol leaned over the maps. “But let us reach further yet.”

“Are we trying to dock in Havana or not?” Brand asked, annoyed.

Carol made a noise and pulled another map from the stack, sliding it out to view. She pressed her finger against the Capital city on the Potomac, drawing a line out and down the Chesapeake. “We are trying for a greater height.”

Aurora didn’t move, hands splayed against the table. Brand blinked once before leaning over to put her face very close to Carol’s.

“You have lost your senses.”

Carol grinned. “Or maybe,” she murmured, eyebrows up. “We have simply found our reach.”


	4. Open Destruction

True to form, the ironclads were poor travellers. Even though Rhodes and Alexander steamed south on the most frightening kind of new technology, they made slow progress. The last night before they were destined to encounter the _Hala Star_ , the two captains met on Samuel Alexander’s ship, taking up the larger part of a table with a detailed map of the keys.

“Tea, Captain?” Alexander asked, and then turned to ring a bell before Rhodes could even answer. The boy was eager to please. It could have been an asset in any other situation, but James Rhodes wasn’t about to tell the man that he wasn’t looking forward to the morning’s engagement.

He took a deep breath and stood up, rubbing his forehead as he looked over the maps. There was no other way around it.

“We have sound intelligence from the keys-”

“Sound?” Alexander looked up at him. “I thought the only men there were rogues and thieves.”

“Luckily, a few rogues exist within Fort Jefferson, and are willing to take money from whatever hand that offers. Whether it be the state or a pirate seems not to matter.” Rhodes fixed Alexander with a sharp look, and the younger man had the wherewithal to look embarrassed for his outburst.

“My apologies for interrupting.”

“None needed.” Rhodes drew a circle around the killer’s key where the _Hala Star_ had been spotted.

“The winds will be slow until the morning light begins to warm the ocean. The sea breeze will rise, and that is when we will approach the harbor.”

“Why don’t we approach in the night?”

“We will be heard. More than that, there are honest men on that island,” Rhodes explained. “We don’t want to make too many more enemies, as we try to bring in the one.”

Rhodes watched Alexander’s face. He was a young man, largely unprepared for war, but eager and fast on his feet. He managed the _Nova_ with an admirable acuity that Rhodes was sure he didn’t have when he was Alexander’s age. He was a remarkable young soldier; Rhodes was simply disappointed that he had company at all for this mission.

There was a knock on the door and both men shot up. A short young soldier with skin like a chestnut and bright eyes came in quickly and put the tea down.

“Will that be all sirs?”

Rhodes blinked, surprised. The man’s voice was that of a young boy, and if his face was anything to go by, the boy couldn’t be older than fifteen. Rhodes glanced at Alexander, who looked deeply uncomfortable as he nodded to the boy. “That will be all Lieutenant Khan, thank you.”

The door shut and Rhodes looked back at Alexander.

“Rather young for a Lieutenant.”

Alexander glanced up at Rhodes and nodded once. “Only a few years my junior, sir. Khan is admirably equipped to lead.”

“Well,” Rhodes looked back down at the map, looking at the shoals, the shallow banks that were noted. He took a deep breath. “We will need all the help we can muster.”

“For one ship?” Alexander seemed skeptical. “I’ve heard the stories, but truly, sir, we cannot be bested by a single pirate on a masted sailing ship. It’s not possible.”

“Famous last words, Alexander,” Rhodes murmured. “With Carol, impossible becomes a relative term.”

* * *

 

Before the dawn rose, the sounds of the Navy’s steam engines could be heard from miles away. There was no helping it. The day was bright and clear, and the sound traveled across the water like an omen.

Carol was on the ladder, eyes on the horizon, unable to see the steamers charging towards them, but imagining that her lover was feeling the same sense of dread and anticipation. Swinging down to the deck, Carol yelled for attention and her crew came up from the berths.

Pointing northwards, her face against the rising sun, Carol addressed her crew.

“Our ocean.”

“Our blood!”

* * *

 

The breeze picked up fast, and by the time the two ironclads appeared, the _Hala Star_ was already under sail and slowly moving south, away from the islands and towards open water. On board the _War Machine_ , Rhodes cursed, and turned to follow the red-canvassed schooner. The maroon colors made the _Star_ unmistakable, and the _Nova_ followed Rhodes’ command, turning towards the open ocean.

“Prepare guns,” Rhodes ordered into the speaker system; a rough connection of tubes and outlets that allowed his voice to carry throughout the steamer.

“Won’t we try to ram them?” asked the helmsman.

It was a common tactic; the only proven way to sink an ironclad was to breach the hull, and often that could only be achieved by another ironclad. In this case, the wooden hulls of the _Star_ would prove an easy target for the gunners on board the Navy ships.

“They can’t outsail cannonfire,” Rhodes said pragmatically, pacing through his office again before going to the main deck.

“Thirty minutes to intercept,” called out a lieutenant from belowdecks.

“Full steam ahead, flag the _Nova_. Have them approach from downwind. Chase them upwards.”

Rhodes continued, checking instruments, then the periscope, looking over the gunners and the cannon balls that had been laid out. He had to move past the grapeshot quickly, having a hard time pushing the thought of Carol rent by such cruel weaponry. He took a deep breath and passed on. 

* * *

“They charge fast, for such ugly things,” Brand reported, looking up to the foredeck.

Carol nodded once, her bright eyes fixed on the long dark sharps on the horizon. They were terrifying things, but if Carol wasn’t the most frightening thing on the ocean, she felt as if she had to make up for some defect.

“Our canons?”

“Two vibrantic cannons on either side, five shots each.”

There was no chance for a mistake now. She watched the shorter steamer break away, charging with the wind as it prepared to come up on the unprotected stern from the west. Smirking, Carol looked to Brand, who nodded.

“They’ve broken out of tight formation,” Brand commented.

“Then let us break them into even smaller fragments.”

Ulysses, standing at Carol’s right, shivered, stepping forward to put his hands on the bannister protecting the foredeck. He looked past the three masts, his red-rimmed eyes piercing sky and sea. When he spoke, he found his words snatched by the wind, tossed into the wake of Carol’s ambitions. “We will all break soon.”

* * *

Rhodes was looking through an eyeglass at the ship in front of him. He found his breath catching in his throat, and focused on the bow, the script written there. He shook his head and then focused on the woman at the helm. Her hair was dark, tucked under her cap, and her skin was deep as well, far more tan than he had ever seen Carol’s.

There was a chance that she simply wouldn’t be helming her ship, but at a time like this.

Rhodey spun on his heel, and sure enough, sailing swiftly down from the north, the true _Star._

The _Nova_ was already too far away to hail by any means and Rhodes simply had to hope that Alexander would see the ship approaching from behind. The ship with the red sails was obviously in league with Carol, and if some other scoundrel had thrown their lot in with the pirate captain, so be it. He only cursed that he had let an easy tell fool him.

“Turn to starboard!”

His order echoed, and the navigator quickly adjusted.

“Hard a’lee!”

The ironclad moved slowly, churning up water, its heavy engine fighting the wind coming across her bow. Soon it would catch her and turn her totally around, but right now they were fighting the wind as it tried to push the _War Machine_ to point west.

The _Hala Star_ , on the other hand, cut through the water as if it were a hand brushing over silk, her sails drawn tight as the wind caught it across the port beam, shooting it southward faster than any steamer could match. Rhodes set his jaw, glanced down at the _Nova_ , which was still making a stern maneuver on the imposter.

He spun back to watch the _Star_ , which had turned slightly downwind, letting its sails out to catch even more of the wind. It was within hailing distance, and he saw the gleam of the cannons as they caught some of the first beams of true morning.

She intended to fire. There was no way that Carol would show her guns and then let them lie. Iron would hold.

“Brace yourselves!”

* * *

Carol knew that the _War Machine_ wouldn't be able to turn around to meet her head-on, she knew that the wind would resist them turning upwind. She knew that her own boat would be manned and prepared. She knew that the stern of the ironclad was smaller than a sailing ship, but just as vulnerable.

She didn’t know that as her ship’s beam passed the stern of the ironclad, she would be able to see Captain James Rhodes on the deck of his ship, yelling at his crew. She didn’t know that as soon as he turned and saw her, as soon as her eyes met, that would be the second she issued her order.

“Fire!”

Aurora and her brother manned one cannon, and James Hudson and Walter the other. Hudson and Walter’s shot was off by less than five feet, and Carol cursed, her lips curling as she saw the precious ammo sink. They only had a few more seconds before Aurora and Jean-Paul would miss their chance, and she dug her nails into the meat of the ship’s wheel. Only an exact shot would maim the _War Machine_ without scuttling her.

Next to her, Ulysses made a noise and flinched.

She held her breath as Aurora finally lit the fuse, and the Wakandan cannon fired on the ironclad, landing a direct hit just below the waterline.

* * *

The impact knocked Rhodes off his feet, throwing him back against the turret. He could feel the bruise in between his shoulderblades as he stood up, watching the _Star_ fly along the water. A dark plume of smoke rose from the stern and Rhodes could tell without even asking that they wouldn’t have steerage.

He cursed and turned down to his crew.

“Guns ready! If she comes back, we sink her!”

He didn’t waste time thinking about how she had managed to so effectively destroy a ship that was essentially undestroyable, but instead looked down to the _Nova_ , who was steaming into the wind now. He had set a direct course for the imposter, who was still sailing very slowly, but the _Hala Star_ was approaching from the _Nova_ ’s port side, and would pass behind the ironclad.

Rhodes was furious. She was going to pull the same trick twice, whatever it was, and Alexander was in danger.

“Sir!”

The chorus of Navy voices lit up, and Rhodes swung around towards where his crew was pointing. Charging directly westward, flying with the wind, was a massive brigantine. Rhodes brought his glass up, focused on the bident-wielding gorgon carved into the figurehead, and then up at the ship. It flew a purple flag with a crowned bident inside of a white circle.

“It’s the _Attilan Queen_ , captain!” His first mate shouted from the bow of the ship.

Rhodes cursed again. The _Queen_ was infamous along the west African coast, and had a reputation as a chain-breaker, a ship that destroyed the slaver’s trade. The 150-foot brigantine was nearly as long as his ship, and as he gave the order to rotate the gun turret towards the _Queen,_ he noticed something strange.

He put his glass back up to his eye, and he saw the sharp edge of the bow, the iron plating of her front. They had turned the front part of the ship’s hull into an ironclad.

Rhodes looked back at the still-smoking stern.

“Abandon ship!”

* * *

Carol kept her eyes ahead, watching as the _Nova_ finally turned fully into the wind, and luffing sails of the _Milano_ started to fill as it leaned onto its starboard side. Quill had only been convinced after many drinks and a hefty bribe, and even then, it was only with the promise that he would be able to escape without firing a shot.

The _Nova_ pushed ahead, and the _Milano_ suddenly turned quickly down, hard to starboard, the wind pulling Quill’s boat across the waves with an alacrity that was remarkable. By now, Alexander had realized the deception, and instead of turning and trying to chase the impostor, _Milano,_ the _Nova_ turned slightly upwind and began to head back towards the _War Machine_ and the _Attilan Queen_.

The extreme clipper was safely sailing away with a speed not lightly aided by a set of Carol’s prized maroon sails. She could only hope that Quill wouldn’t ruin her reputation. She almost laughed. To be thinking of her reputation as she openly attacked two ships of the President’s Navy. She was a damn fool.

The _Nova_ had swung around, and Carol was forced to look back, and she felt her convictions catch behind her teeth, a wretched scream dying in her throat. There were small rowboats in the water, and the _War Machine_ had been scuttled.

The _Attilan Queen_ seemed to be listing to one side as well, and Carol looked over just in time to see the _Nova_ ’s turret pull back.

She was powerless to stop the _Nova_ ’s shot; her own guns were broadside, and couldn’t be brought to her bow.

Alexander’s aim was true, and a massive chain shot exploded from his cannon, wrapping around one of the masts of the _Attilan Queen_ and bringing it down. Luckily, the ship was turned in a way that allowed the mast to go over the side, into the water, and Carol could see the _Queen_ ’s crew severing it from the ship, while others dragged it back on the deck.

The _Nova_ had made a mistake, and while the _Star_ was still out of range, the shot had turned the listing _Queen_ even further, and the ironclad was now exposed to the brigantine’s guns. Alexander was heading northwards, and the brigantine fired on the bow of the ironclad.

“Prepare the starboard side!” Carol yelled, spinning the wheel and turning the boat to port, tacking across the wind. “We catch it broadside!” Carol grasped the wheel with both hands and, her shirt straining as her arms tensed. The schooler was fast, and turned faster than the _Nova_ , but it fought her, unwilling to turn so quickly. Carol’s will was stronger than any keel, and the bark began to spin.

Three shots from the _Queen_ missed the _Nova_ , and the ironclad was trying to turn to port when the fourth vibrantic cannonball hit the _Nova_ on its starboard side with a great crash. The cannons were breech loading and didn’t need to be pulled back, and already another volley was underway. A fifth cannonball tore apart the main turret, leaving the vessel with only two guns on each side, near the bow.

Alexander managed to bring his ship out of range of the brigantine’s guns, and the last volley landed behind the stern of the ironclad. Carol watched it fall short, sensing the end. The two ships were now side by side, and she grinned fiercely, her prey in hand.

Now if Alexander had looked to port he would have seen the starboard side of the _Hala Star_ , its dull sun-sapped red hull, the golden-yellow streak that ran bow to stern. Then there was a flash, a bang, and three rounds of Wakandan vibrantic ammo pummeled the _Nova_. Carol cheered as the _Nova_ spun almost onto its ear.

The _Nova’_ s port canon fired as it turned on its starboard side, and Carol saw the side of her ship shatter inwards as the cannonball hit her unprotected side.

“Tighten up!”

Both ironclads were done for. The _Nova_ sinking slowly, the _War Machine_ less than jetsam. The _Hala Star_ was still seaworthy, despite the breach in her hull. The gape was above the waterline, at least, and although it was naive to believe that the red streaks on deck were paint, she did so anyway.

“We sail north!” She cried out, “We sail to meet the Admiral!”

Carol didn’t look back at the debris as her ship shot past the wreckage of the _War Machine_.

Some things, she convinced herself, were better left unknown.


	5. The Star's Final Stand

 

The _Star_ was damaged, but her crew were already at work. Carol was suddenly grateful for Brand’s insistence that they carry so much cargo, because the repairs were being done in record time, with stock they already had. It wouldn’t be safe for Carol to dock at any port, and frankly, she wasn’t entirely sure that her crew wouldn’t abandon her.

She still ran a democratic ship, after all. Anyone could come and go as they liked. Despite everything, all her own selfish endeavors, she still looked after her crew, cared about how they felt and what they wanted. This would be the last ask.

The smell of oakum, teak, and fresh wood was sharp as they headed back towards the coast after taking a long tack out through the ocean in the middle of the night. It was the low season, and not many storms were brewing off the coast of Africa.

She was moving forward with clear eyes.

“A report, sir.”

Brand stood at attention, and Carol pulled Ulysses to the wheel and walked over to the bannister, leaning over. Carol grinned at her green-haired second and nodded once.

“Aye, give it.”

“The boat sustained some damage to the starboard beam, but the hull remains intact throughout. There are a few bent rods along the hull, but we are sound.”

“Sound enough for another battle?”

Brand pressed her mouth and gestured. “Come down here please, sir.”

Carol laughed and jumped over the railing, landing neatly beside Brand. The woman sniffed and opened up her small notebook.

“We do in fact have the integrity needed to survive another encounter,” Brand said carefully, not looking at her notebook. “But I don’t think that our crew has the fortitude needed to take on another ironclad, with or without iron-piercing cannonfire.”

“Are you questioning the bravery of your shipmates?” Carol asked playfully, crossing her arms. “I’m surprised, and disappointed. Remarkable, considering you have only ever done the former.”

“This is no joking matter, sir.”

“Brand, do you trust me?”

“I do, sir.”

Carol looked at Brand with a serious glare, all trace of her jovial attitude gone. Brand looked over Carol’s shoulders, her even gaze, her furrowed brow. The wind picked up and as Carol turned her face into the breeze, Brand took a deep breath and she knew that Brand would follow her to the ends of the ocean. Sometimes Carol didn’t feel worthy of such fierce affection, but the captain would be damned before she ever admitted it.

“I have a plan,” Carol said, walking away from her first mate. “I will not ask you to weather storms that you cannot bear.”

“You’re misquoting the bible, sir!” Brand called out. “I do not think you clever!”

Carol’s laughter carried back towards the stern of the boat. Watching her go, Brand shook her head and went up to check on Ulysses. Even Carol knew that the boy sometimes drifted.

* * *

In Washington DC, in a large state building overlooking the Potomac, Admiral Stark reviewed newspaper reports and eyewitness accounts of the destruction along the keys. The wreckage had washed up on Augustine’s shore, and Fort Jefferson had sent ships up the coast to retrieve survivors. They were still taking an account of the remaining officers and crew, and they would be back in Virginia at the end of the week.

Three pirate ships had bested two of the most outstanding pieces of machinery that had ever been constructed, his creations had been turned into a laughingstock overnight. Damn that woman, Stark thought, throwing the newspaper across the room. Damn her eyes, damn her ship, _damn her to hell_. Was she a cursed thorn, never to be removed from his side?

His hands gripped the corner of his desk hard as he forced himself to calm down. His own ship was nearly ready, he would soon be respected again as the naval power in the Americas. Some chit with a wretched sailing ship would not best him.

Looking over the papers he had half a mind to demand the United Kingdom’s Embassy give reparations for the _Attilan Queen_ ’s role in the attack, but was sure that it would only serve to make him look even more foolish. Medusa and her crew had been captured, but for some reason Ireland was demanding her return. It had taken all of Stark’s considerable weight to keep her in the United States for as long as he had, but it was apparent that she and her entire crew would be sent back to the isle.

Damn her as well. Would these women never learn?

As he was preparing to leave his office, there came a knock.

“Enter.”

A young ensign stepped into the office, saluted, and then held out an envelope to the Admiral.

“A telegram, sir, from Norfolk.” Stark frowned, ripping open the telegram. It was two pages, and he moved his mouth as he read over the missives. The ensign stood at attention, looking straight ahead, not even daring to glance down at the papers Stark held.

“She’s paid the shipyards a visit.” Stark murmured, frowning deeply. “Stolen timber and teak from Virginia Beach and shot at Hampton Roads....”

Stark laughed, crunching the telegrams in his fist and dropping them. Foolish. She was desperate and making mistakes. “I need Commanders Summers and Eisenhardt in the war room as soon as possible. Have the _Cyclops_ and _Magistrate_ prepared for launch.”

The ensign nodded and turned to leave.

“And the _Arc_.” Stark added, looking up from his desk.

The ensign turned, frowning slightly. “Sir, I thought the _Arc_ under construction…” he tailed off, seeing the dark fire alight in Stark’s eyes. The admiral nodded once.

Stark didn’t look away. “She will be prepared alongside the other ironclads.”

The ensign nodded once more, and slid out of the room. Stark immediately went over to his desk, pulling over a piece of stationery and drawing up a plan. He would not let Carol escape this time. There would be no more half-measures. The _Hala Star_ would sink on the horizon, and it would be at his hand.

* * *

It was night, and Carol had been sailing eastward slowly. There was a lull in this part of the ocean, and the sails were luffing lazily, filling for a few seconds before falling flat, wrinkles in the fabric where curves and sharp lines usually stood.

She was leaning against the railing of the stern, watching her ship silently rock itself on the ocean. It was a beautiful thing, even quiet. They had managed to fix the hull to something remarkably passable in just three days, and the _Star_ was seaworthy once again.

Sighing, Carol looked up at the stars, the soft sway of the constellations above her. The sky and the sea one in the same, as if she were drifting slowly through space. It was her domain. Carol knew that she was born for the ocean; to travel the expanses few dared to travel; to cut through the seas in commanding lines. The ship’s sails filled again, and this time the breeze seemed strong. As the boat was pulled forward, the water moved over the keel, and instead of being aimless, in just seconds, she had direction under her.

Laughing, Carol stepped forward, wrapping her hands around the wheel of the schooner, feeling its worn and delicate wood underneath her. Smiling, sighing, she eased her boat into the wind and then tacked, heading back west, towards the eastern coast. If all went well, this entire thing would be over in a few days. She had come to peace with it.

Carol lashed the wheel after the boat settled, then jumped down the forecastle to rearrange some lines, tightening a few and letting another jib further out. At her stop in Norfolk she had finally been able to put up her real colors, and she flew her maroon sails once again. She couldn’t stop smiling as she walked back up to the wheel, happy to serve her shift without end or interruption.

Slowly, then with increasing speed, the _Star_ sailed through the sea, cutting open the milky way underneath her prow, the light of the night making Carol’s skin glow nearly gold.

* * *

Anthony Stark did not sleep. He was haunted by the idea of Danvers, by her ship, by everything she had done. He was haunted by everything that he had done. He still had adjustments to make on the ship, and while he knew that engineers would be working through the night he couldn’t resist He picked up his own wrench and tool kit and went into the depths of the _Arc_ ’s engine room and did the final touches himself. He rearranged hydraulic lines and slimmed down the vacuum system that helped deliver air to the lower parts of the ship.

He emerged from the _Arc_ bruised and greasy, but with his brown eyes glittering. This was what he truly loved, working with machines and finding new ways to create and develop and invent. The Navy simply allowed him a means to the end. His duty to his country gave him leave to create machines of danger and efficiency. Stark knew that he was a genius, but what good was a mind if it wasn’t put to use, if it wasn’t used to help people. What good was he?

There had been many years he had spent wasting time on women and attempts to run his father’s business. He simply didn’t have the right kind of attention for that, and left it instead in his wife’s hands. This, however, was what he was good at. What he was meant for.

As he walked back to his study to change, Stark wiped his hands obsessively on a small rag. Over each finger, under the nails, across his knuckles. He thought hard about what he was planning to do, the extents he was willing to go to for pride. It was pride, wasn’t it? How much of this hunt was for the sake of the nation and how much was to slate his ego?

His footsteps echoed through the halls. It was nearly dawn, and despite the sleepless night of hard labor in engine rooms he felt invigorated rather than exhausted. At the crux, Stark decided, it was a matter of war. She committed treason. The circumstances weren’t important. She killed men, good men. She destroyed his ships, his machines, his inventions. Each remembered injustice steeled his resolve.

The only think Stark was sure of was that Carol would be captured or killed. He realized he didn’t care either way how it shook out. Either one would do.

After he had managed to wash himself and dress in a uniform that was not soiled by sweat and oil, he left for the war room. On the way over he was given a trio of telegrams, one from Baltimore, one from Boston, the other from New York. He took each one and tucked them into his pocket as he went into the war room with his two commanders.

Scott Summers and Max Eisenhardt were two men cut from the same cloth. Viciously dedicated, absolute in their convictions, but with two drastically opposing views and tactics. They would never be able to work together if they didn’t have some sort of authority to guide them. Stark was more than happy to oblige.

He set out the map and drew a line up the coast, outlining his goals.

“What makes you think that Danvers will return to the states?” Summers asked, frowning deeply. “Why wouldn’t she make for Africa, or South America? She could disappear easily.”

“That’s not in her nature,” Stark explained, frowning. “She knows that this is a challenge. If she wanted a quiet life she would have run south after the war.”

Eisenhardt shook his head. “You think her pride will give her enough reason to challenge the full strength of the United States Navy?”

“I believe that her grudge is more personal than that.” “So Danvers’ personal dislike of your politics is enough to drive her to a fight she is certain to lose?”

Stark fixed Eisenhardt with a sharp stare and made a noise. “You would do the same if you felt yourself so wronged. To Danvers, the fact that I breathe is an insult.” “Fine,” Summers interrupted. “Assuming she approaches, what is our response.”

“Don’t you care about motivations?” Eisenhardt sneered. “I find it secondary when he already know the action Danvers will take.”

“Gentlemen,” Stark spoke sharply, and both Captains looked in his direction. “Here is our plan.”

* * *

The Admiral wasn’t wrong, Carol was heading back towards the east, almost towards Philadelphia. It didn’t quite matter to her where she would end up.

It didn’t take long, and she saw a _fusee_ to the north. There were a pair of sails on the horizon, and if she focused on the western edge, she could almost hear the steamships coming out of their ports. She took a deep breath before she fixed her gaze on the flare in the sky.

“Our ocean! Our blood!”

* * *

“Admiral!”

Stark’s eyes narrowed on the horizon, and he pulled out a megaglass he had been developing. He fixed his gaze on the _fusee_ and then drew it down and outwards, slowly inching across the horizon in miles. The wind was fresh against his face, the smell of iron and salt on his hands. Here she was; the _Hala Star_ , after so many years, before him.

Not just that.

He took a deep breath. The _Hala Star_ was flying right at him, sails full and pulled taut. The wind was at her back, coming down from the Northwest and giving her all the speed a schooner of her size could handle. She would be upon them in less than minutes, and had more maneuverability and speed. The three of them were too close together.

Stark cursed and quickly left the small deck of the _Arc_ descending into the engineering and gunnery banks. He went to the tactical team and quickly issued orders. Immediately, the horns sounded out that would tell the _Cyclops_ and the _Magistrate_ to spread out and assume attack positions, all men heading under the deck. The two ships were both south of him, on his leeward side, and he realized that in order to avoid the fire of two ironclads, the _Star_ would likely pass to the windward of him, off his port beam.

“Turn to the north!”

He would head her off, try to get his nose against her side. His rotating turrets made it so that he could attack from any angle, while she would only be able to fire from either her starboard or port sides. He would present the smaller target, although she was the faster one.

As Stark watched her ship through the periscope, he was surprised that she wasn’t turning northwards, into the wind to speed up, as he had originally assumed. Instead she was continuing at her current clip straight East. He was too far away to signal to the _Cyclops_ directly beneath him, but he hoped that Summers had the wherewithal to understand what was happening.

Carol, for all her brazen attitude, intended to split the fleet and sailing between the _Arc_ and the _Cyclops_. He didn't have much time to analyze the situation, and immediately ordered his turret to swing around south. The _Star_ was bearing down on him quickly, and he saw that she would have a clear shot at both him and Summers in mere moments. It was too late to try to present a smaller target, and there was something like panic rising in his throat.

He still didn’t know how she had managed to sink the _Nova_. By all accounts it had been her alone, but Stark didn’t think it possible. There was something else, there had to be.

The air belowdecks in the _Arc_ was thick with sweat. He watched the _Star_ approach, sailing faster and faster. She was ten boatlengths away, and his turret was in position for a broadside fire solution.

“Prepare to fire!”

The order was echoed up to the turret, and he could hear the soft _thunk-chunk_ of the cannon being loaded. The _Arc_ had only a single gun; the strength of an ironclad lay in it’s ability to ram the opposing ship.

“Ready!”

Four boatlengths, and Stark could see through his periscope almost no movement on the deck. He frowned deeply and looked over at his Lieutenant who was viewing the _Star_ through his own periscope.

“Do you see her crew?”

“No, sir. The ship appears to be unmanned.”

Stark cursed, looking back to his glass. “Fire when ready!” The command for discretion. They might not have another shot.

South of him the _Cyclops_ fired prematurely, the shot sinking uselessly behind the stern of the _Star_. He was being conservative, unwilling to risk the _Arc_ while the _Hala Star_ sailed in between the ironclads.

Stark held no such reservations. He turned and called to his crew, “When ready!”

He kept his eyes on the _Star_ , and there was only a small shift on deck. One body moving.

“That _devil_.”

* * *

Carol’s face was stony as her boat picked up speed. It had been unburdened of crew and supplies, and the four canons were lashed to the windward side, keeping the keel as even as it could be.

Her ship had never flown faster. She took a deep breath and as soon as her bow crossed the _Arc’s,_ she fired the first vibrantic canon. Without looking at the result, she ran down the deck, skidded to light the second canon, and then the third. She felt the shots in her bones, and as the _Arc_ returned fire, there was a crack like lightening and she gasped.

Above her splinters shattered, the main mast creaked and shattered as it fell, snapped and destroyed by the shot from the _Arc_. It felt as if a limb had been broken, as if her back. She jumped over debris and canvas to get to the final canon. They had already sailed past the _Arc_ , but with a monumental shove, Carol managed to turn the canon on its wheels and light the wick.

The smell of burning gunpowder was sharp in her nose as she ducked behind the railing, covering her ears and head. A screech rent the air, and she looked up to see the turret of the _Arc_ sagging, almost completely caved in.

She whooped, running to gather up the lines that had come loose. She trimmed the sails in as best she could and ran back to the wheel.

The _Cyclops_ was at her beam, charging up on her, and ahead the _Magistrate_ had come round, approaching from the south as well. The _Cyclops’_ gun fired and Carol was thrown against the wheel as the scattershot flung itself into the side of the ship. There was another shot from the _Magistrate_ and her sails were shredded.

Her ship had become lame in the the water. She could no longer run.

Carol’s eyes were huge, breath coming in harsh gasps as she looked between the three boats, up at her ruined sails, her masts now numbering two. She swallowed, unable to think straight, every instinct telling her to trim in canvas that was no longer there, to sail, to flee, to fly, and instead she remained where she was, hand twisted around the wheel.

She blinked, realizing that she had been cut from the scattershot and splinters that had shot from the mast, and suddenly her entire body was shot with pain, the dull aches of adrenaline having pushed down the sharper agonies. She could taste the copper along her mouth, smell the dull, loathsome odor of charred wood, smoldering where the _Star_ had been hit by scattershot. There was a ringing in her ears as her boat began to list to the side, though Carol stayed put, grasping the wheel with white hands.

There was another rasping thud, and she saw that the low-slung _Arc_ had pushed up along the portside of her boat. Ladders clicked and grappling hooks extended, and Carol fumbled with her belt, scrambling for her pistol and finding that it had been lost in her mad scramble over the downed mast.

As soon as she stepped away from the wheel her knees buckled and she fell down on her side. There was a throb from her back, another along her thigh. Had she been shot? Was it a torn muscle or tattered flesh? She couldn’t think, she needed to make it to her gun.

It didn’t matter that she had no idea where the pistol was among the detritus, rather, it was the goal that drove her to stand. She pulled herself up along the bannister and flung herself over the railing, landing on the main deck on all fours. Glancing up, she could see the first soldiers peeking over the side of her ship. They wouldn’t take her without a few falling first.

She bared her teeth and forgot the pistol, pain and anger driving her forward. Crying out, she stood up and ran at the men coming onto the _Star_.

Two men were pushed back over the railing, a third fell onto the deck and didn’t rise, his head smacking against something metal. Carol was finally restrained by three men who pinned her to the ground with no small amount of effort. She snarled, lying in a pool of her own blood, trying to twist out of the grip of the sailors.

As she writhed on the ground, a shadow fell over her. “You broke my ship.”

* * *

Admiral Stark wasn’t sure what to expect from the woman he had barely met and only heard rumors of, but this was far less dignified a reaction than he wanted. She was writhing on the ground, her feet scrambling for purchase as her breathing came quick and fast. He had expected someone elevated, impressive, and here she was, just another pirate.

Still, she fixed him with a clear, piercing gaze.

Stark set his jaw, looking down his nose at her.

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I wish it had been your spine,” Carol snapped, getting her feet under her and nearly lifting the men off the boat as she tried to lunge at Stark. The Admiral set his jaw and took a step back before turning to go back to the _Arc_.

“See her in chains.” “Aye, chain me, see how strong your iron is? See how brittle your ego!”

“And gag her!”

Stark hung back on the _Star_ as Carol was dragged upright and then over the side of the sailing ship. He could barely hear her as he patrolled the deck, his entire face contorted in something like disgust. He made his way to the starboard side of the ship and found the cannons that had been lashed in place. Whatever those cannons were, they had found some way to break apart an ironclad. Stark was only annoyed that he hadn’t gotten a hold of them first.

He ran his hand along the outside, wondering at the almost invisible seams on their sides. They were totally unfamiliar and...brilliant. Stark was struck with a deep pang of envy and jealousy, his wounded pride already smarting from the toll that these marvels had taken on his own machine. He crouched down to look for a maker’s mark but found none, just an intricate geometric design and a small portrait of a cat’s head in profile near the bore. He had seen nothing like this canon in his life, although he had theorized of what kind of material it would take to create a breech loading gun, he had been too busy with other projects to dedicate time to it.

He looked around and couldn’t find any ammo, and he had an ensign call the _Magistrate_ over. When Eisenhardt appeared on deck, Stark pointed at the cannons.

“I want you to take all of these weapons on board and have them transported to my workspace.” Whatever those cannons were, they had found some way to break apart an ironclad. Stark was only annoyed that he hadn’t gotten a hold of them first.

“Sir,” Eisenhardt nodded and his men quickly began to fasten ladders to the side of the ship. “And what of the _Hala Star_?”

Stark paused, looking around the wreckage of the schooner. It wasn’t so much of a prize as a nuisance.

“Leave it,” he said, turning back to his own ship. “It will fall apart soon enough.”


	6. One Last Breath

After a few long, cold nights, Carol was roughly pulled to standing by two uniformed guards. Carol glared at the one holding her left arm, but made no attempt to pull away as she was led through the prison and across a small stretch of lawn to the main naval quarters.

“The Admiral couldn’t get his shoes dirty?” Carol sneered as the door was opened for her, “That’s nothing new. The boy never knew how do real work. Always sent his social lessers to do the job for him. This country stinks of nepotism and repression, all of you-”

She was pushed through the doors with no ceremony whatsoever, and as soon as she saw Admiral Stark behind his desk she bared her teeth, her shoulders tensed, the manacles digging into her wrists. “Won’t you stand?” She growled, “A lady has entered the room.”

“Only a poor excuse for one,” Anthony Stark murmured. He made a gesture, and his guards forced the corsair to sit. Before she could move her arms at all, they unlocked the manacle around her right wrist and threaded the chain through the back of the specially-made prisoner’s chair. The sturdy oak slats would keep her in place, and the guards went back to posts on either side of the door. 

“Aye, as you’re a poor excuse for an officer, much less an admiral.”

“You are aware of the severity of the situation you find yourself in, Miss Danvers,” Stark began, although his tone was stiffer now that he saw the kind of vitriol the woman held. 

“Captain Danvers.”

“ _Miss_ Danvers,” He repeated, voice tense, glaring at her, “ you are no captain of any country, you are a woman of no nation, and your ship has been operating illegally on all waters. You are being held for the abuse of your letters of marque, which expired nearly three years ago--”

“Stamped, if you’ll check, by the Vice-Admiral of the Union--” 

“There is no more Union! It’s been two years since the end of the war, and you are still pretending as if you have some right to American ships!” 

“So hang me!” Carol shifted forward in her chair, arms straining behind her. “Go on then, do it! The last pirate, swinging in a New York Harbor, wouldn’t that be a fine feather in your cap, Admiral? Wouldn’t that be enough for a promotion? You’ve never held qualms over spilling the blood of others for your own position, for your own benefit, as if you ever engaged with any party that didn’t have their hands bound!”

Stark’s face was pale, his eyes like chips of ice, framed by dark brows and elegantly styled hair. He was the opposite of Carol, her greasy, sun-drenched hair falling in her manic eyes. 

“You speak without knowledge of-”

“I speak with full knowledge!” She yelled, straining forward again. “You were the one that built the repeating weapons, the rapid-fire guns that could take out towns from a mile away! You were the one who proudly developed the instrument that took honor out of wartime, that reduced warriors to fodder! Your invention turned this country red, Stark. Your invention gave the Union the ability to raze entire cities, to decimate states! No matter who was there, no matter what kind of civilian or citizen you found, they were gunned down under the weapon that bears your name!”

“The Jericho gun was never-” Stark was nearly as pale as the papers on his desk, stuttering, “it was intended for-”

“Death!” Carol lurched forward, and the oaken chair behind her creaked. “Death, Stark. You bartered your soul for money and position, you turned your gun over to the Confederacy at the first hint of new profit, you scum-sucking, _inbred_ , useless piece of human _shit_.”

Stark’s jaw was so tense that the muscles were visible in his neck, there was a pulsing vein in his forehead and he swallowed twice before he could get his wits collected enough to respond. The two Navymen in the room who acted as guards shifted on their feet. Stark looked down at the list that he had drawn up of all of Danvers’ crimes.

“You stand accused-”

“You coward,” Carol spat out, almost shaking in her rage. “You absolute coward.”

“Of no less than three counts of piracy against Union ships during the time of the civil conflict, and an additional five ships in the two years preceding the end of the surrender.”

“You hide behind your desk, and your money, hide your blood soaked hands with white gloves, and you send better men to do your work for you.” Carol refused to be defeated, refused to back down. Who would hold Anthony Stark accountable for his crimes? Who would tell him that he had been the reason that cotton bloomed in red fields, that corn grew in bitter soil? 

“You stand further accused of refusing to turn yourself into the authorities, for avoiding said authorities when issued a letter of notice, for impersonating a man, an officer, and at one point a member of the Union militia. As well you are accused of attacking no less than five Navy ships, all operating under the authority of the law to detain you. And among those attacks, almost a dozen soldiers have been killed.”

“Viper,” Carol muttered, slumping down in her chair. She was resigned to the charges being leveled at her, “is there nothing that you hold sacred?”

Stark glanced up at Carol and then back down at the paper. Carol glared at him from behind her blonde fringe. There was a hesitation in him now, and she pressed forward.

“Is there anything else, _Admiral_?”

Stark set his jaw again, not looking up at the pirate. “You also stand accused of miscegenation, and will stand trial for that crime as well.”

For a second there was silence, and had Stark the nerve to look at the woman, he would have seen a face that would send the devil back to hell. 

“You bug,” she hissed, and there was another crack from the oaken standards that held her. “You would stoop so low just to add another offense to my list? What worth is that charge? He was your friend! He was supposed to be your friend!” Any semblance of calm Carol carried disappeared. 

“I did not-”

“You do nothing! You take orders like a beaten child, you roll over like a cur for a reward, you foul, irresolute fool-” Suddenly Carol was standing, her hands still secured by manacles, but without the bounds of the chair. She snarled and made an attempt to leap towards Stark, but was caught by large hands. The two naval officers stationed in his office held Carol captive. 

“He was a far better man than you are! Than you could ever be!” She tried furiously to get to Stark, who had a hand on his pistol. Glancing over at the shattered chair he gestured for her to be taken away. 

“Back to the brig with her.”

Carol cried out in frustration, struggling against her captors as she was dragged out of the Admiral’s office. She left blood on the carpet, drops even landed on Stark’s desk in her mad dash towards the officer. 

“You don’t have half his strength! Half his honor!” Carol screamed, still digging her heels in, proving more than a challenge for the men who tried to escort her away. “You will never be anything but a murderer, Stark! Your hands will be red forever!”

Carol’s voice echoed long after she had been forced back across the yard to the prisoner’s quarters. Stark stared at the chair, where her wrists, cut by the manacles, had left their bloody mark. The nerve of a woman--of _anyone_ to be able to withstand that pain, to summon the strength to break apart the sturdy wood. It defied explanation, but Stark had learned long ago that underestimating Carol Danvers was a mistake. 

He glanced over at the paper again, seeing that dark word burned at the bottom of the page. He had told the military police of Carol’s affair. He had misgivings about bringing this relationship to the court just to hurt Carol, but did she not deserve every charge? While it was true, he knew without a doubt that his actions were a lowly thing At the very least, she was right about that. 

But she was still a pirate and a traitor, and that would be what she was known for. The last true sailor of the Carolina main, a woman who would not be matched for many years, who would go down in history as the Marvelous Captain Carol. Infamy, unfortunately, would not save her now. He turned over the writ and signed it, authorizing the chargers and marking a C and a star for Carol’s own signature, recognizing that she had at least been read the accusations. 

There would be a formal trial, but that was a few months off. Stark dreaded speaking to his own officers about the final charge on the list, and not for the first time hoped it would never come up again. 

He had betrayed his friend, all for the sake of making a woman look weak in the eyes of his peers. 

Stark sat heavily, glaring at the destroyed chair. Damn her. The troubles would never cease. 

* * *

It did not take long for word to spread of the capture of the infamous Captain Carol. The last rogue pirate, brought to heel. It was news, and it spread quickly along the east coast. Not far from her holding cell, a small stand of trinkets popped up from the woodwork. It had lockets with clipping of Carol’s blonde hair, shreds of red fabric from the sails of the _Hala Star_ , even small chips of paint from the _Attilan Queen_ , last seen limping towards India.

A month after her charges had been delivered, she was pulled out of the small jail to stand before a hearing. It was a small arraignment, and nothing that she said or did would make any difference whatsoever, but she had the right to see who accused her, and the right to stand before her accusers. This was such a ceremony. 

She had been given water to clean herself with, had been given set of clean sailor’s droogs, and was asked to look presentable. She considered tearing her shirt apart and appearing before the judge and courtroom with her breasts bared, in the tradition of female tars before her. 

The decision was made for her when a sharp rap came from the prison door and it was opened. There wasn’t much pomp; the two sailors came in and dragged her upwards before clapping a pair of manacles on her. The sharp chill settled on her wrists and around her ankles, and they pushed her forwards.

The small yard in between the jail and the official building gave her a brief, blessed moment in the open air, and she stopped in the middle of the walkway, turning her face upwards, feeling the wind press against her cheek.

A river was no ocean, but the Potomac was as close as she had come to sea air in four weeks and she refused to be less grateful. 

Lost in thought, she was jerked out of her reverie by a scream. She startled and turned towards the sound. The men on either side of her pressed advantage and walked her forward. 

“Sailor,” she murmured, blinking at the bright light. “Is there a parade?”

“Hardly.” 

She let herself be led forward, though her face was still turned towards the thoroughfare, at the crowds of people pressing at the wrought iron gates. They were screaming and yelling and pointing at her. 

“They come to catch sight of you.”

“Aye. Some sight.” Carol’s voice was quiet, but she tilted her head up, her proud mein returning. Whatsoever was thought of her, she had her dignity, her own self. She might not be any better than her accusers, but at least she did not pretend to stand so high up on the moral ladder. She was no closer to God or Heaven than any of these murderers. 

Still, the crowd cheered, and it was not the jeering chant of a crowd demanding blood, but the riotous approval of a navigator who has finally found their star. It was happy, joyful, something full of bright eyes and raised palms. 

Carol turned to watch them as she passed. Did they know for whom they cheered? 

Then suddenly she was up the steps and in the marble building, and the silence was even more deafening. 

She was walked through the building and then put into a waiting room, where again she had two sailors as guards and an armed bailiff watching her. She had no attorney yet, and doubted she would meet them before she was being faced with a noose. Carol knew little of the laws of the court, but had assumed that since she was a civilian she would be transferred to a civilians court. Apparently War Crimes provided the perfect exemption. 

Carol waited an hour, and was just about to start breaking things when another appointee of the court opened the door. 

“Your hearing, madam.”

Carol snorted, standing. “You make yourself a liar, sir.”

“Nevertheless.”

She was ushered into the courtroom and was shocked again. Any available seat was taken, some by common folk, some by men in uniform, and plenty of members of the press, already segregating themselves with foolish hats and inked fingers. Carol narrowed her eyes at Stark, who sat, immutable in white, at the bench of the prosecutor. 

“This is quite the production, Admiral,” Carol sneered. She was pushed down into the seat roughly, and her chains chimed against the tiled floor. Stark looked over at her, his expression blank. 

“You look well.”

“If we were anywhere else I would spit.”

“Ever the lady, aren’t you Carol?” 

Carol sat back in her chair, head tilted up. “More a man than you.”

“This is not the time to philosophize-”

“No,” Carol snapped, glaring. “Now is the time for judgement.”

As if on her cue, the judge stepped in and the court fell silent. He was a large man, dressed in military finery, and possessed an impressive set of eyebrows that winged out almost to his temples. Carol pressed her mouth and stood up shortly before sinking back down into her chair. 

The court was called to order, silence maintained, and then there was a small creak as the door opened. Carol rolled her eyes and glanced back, even as the seriousness of the trial was bearing down, announced to all. She couldn’t see whoever had gotten in at the last minute, but she supposed he would be very important. A few minutes later, the prosecutor still expounding on all of Carol’s evils, there was movement at the end of the opposition's bench as Stark turned away.

She glanced over, determined that nobody would give her pause, and was shocked. Standing by the railing, leaning over to speak to the Admiral, was Captain James Rhodes, very much alive. 

Her mouth must have fallen open without notice, but she snapped it shut and turned to face straight ahead. The man was alive. Any guilt she had borne over the past few weeks dissipated into nothing. The lives lost has been worth it, the battles fought, more meaningless than dust. James Rhodes was alive, and he would be shamed into something worse than a corpse. Rhodes retreated into the crowd without glancing over at Carol, and she wouldn’t fault him for that, but Stark refused to look over.

Carol’s eyes bore holes through Stark’s head until the prosecutor turned to Carol’s bench.

“Therefore the state, the military, and the people of the United States of America seek to pursue the following charges; piracy, murder, impersonation, evading and resisting lawful arrest, and interfering with a military operation during the time of war. We will sum up these charges with the term treason, and will press to see the Pirate Carol Danvers, if convicted, hung by the neck, until dead.”

The court went into an uproar; a woman hanged? Such a thing was rare, almost unheard of. It would be turned into a an exhibition of gross proportions. 

Carol only heard the absence of another charge, and she set her jaw as she glanced back towards Stark. If he expected thanks for the only decent action he had managed to produce in the past ten years, or possibly his entire lifetime, he would be sorely mistaken. She turned away and let herself be pulled upwards and through the waiting room. 

She glanced back one more time, and tried to convince herself that she wasn’t searching for her lover’s face. 

Carol was roughly escorted back to the prison, this time by a different pair of guards. She stayed quiet, mind flitting from plan to strategy. She may have accepted the charges, but hanging was a different matter. 

She sat in her cell, alone and plotting, when the light from the lanterns in the hallway darkened. Her breathing slowed to something less than a whisper, and she remained as still as she could on the ill-made bed. The soft footsteps stopped at her door, but she still couldn’t see who was standing behind the door. She took a deep breath and turned over on her bed, as if she were simply sleeping poorly.

“I know you’re feigning,” Rhodes said gently, his voice almost lost. “I’ve seen it many times.”

“Then you’ll remember the deceit,” she said, speaking to the empty room, “I believe I mean to ignore you.”

“Carol, please.”

“Soon I will be hanged, and you will not have to interrupt your sleep.”

“You shot at my ship.”

“Aye.” She shifted and sat up, looking over at him. “I think I hit your ship.”

James made a noise, shaking his head. “This is useless.”

Carol was up in a second, eye level with the Captain, meeting his gaze through the bars. “You knew that before you darkened my doorstep, sailor.”

“Carol,” he murmured, almost a warning.

“Why are you here?”

James set his jaw, staring at her. There was a deep pain in his eyes as he searched her face. He took a deep breath. “I have no excuse.”

“You don’t have keys at your hip. There’s no schooner in the harbor this time.” Carol tilted her chin up, daring him, trying to save face in front of the man whom she had cared for more than any other man. “You will not save me.”

“I cannot,” James said sharply, frowning.

“If you could, would you?” Carol pressed, taking a step forward. She did not look away. She was imposing even in chains, even unwashed. She looked sorry next to the crisp uniform James wore, but it did not stop her from acting on equal ground.

“No.”

Carol set her jaw and nodded. She didn’t expect a different answer, but it still stung. She understood; he had sworn an oath, had been given rank and position and compensation equal with his ability. And she had violated that. Changed the rules and turned everything into a black and white argument. Duty and honor, or something that might have, once upon a time, been akin to love. 

Carol had made the same choice not two weeks ago. 

“Good.” Carol took a deep breath and smiled. “Then we are equals again.”

“I’m not the one in prison.” Rhodes was incredulous, but he smiled a little at Carol. “You overstep, pirate.”

“Aye, but isn’t that why you like me?”

James’s gaze dropped and he made a noise of assent. Glancing to his left he sighed and took a step away from the door, swallowing. “The guards approach.”

Taking a quick step forward, Carol reached through the bars, her fingers barely brushing against his jaw. She didn’t know it, but she suddenly looked very sad. James didn’t move as Carol’s fingers gently pressed against his face. He smiled and stepped back, holding her hand gently before bowing and brushing his mouth against her knuckles. 

“Goodbye, Carol.”

She nodded once, smiling at him. “Fair seas.”

* * *

In the early morning, the alarm rang out, a giant peal that was unmistakeable. Admiral Stark was immediately woken by an ensign and brought to the emergency room to await orders and information. 

He slouched in a chair and gestured for one of the servicemen to bring him coffee. He looked down and sighed, unbuttoning his jacket, having missed a tog when scrambling to dress ten minutes ago. It was nonsense like this that drove him away from the Navy in the first place. 

All this bureaucratic nonsense he had shovel through was just a reminder of of the mighty pension and nearly-unlimited resources he had. The _Arc_ was still crippled, but swiftly being repaired, with more iron armor and firepower than before. There would be no more incidents like that in the future.

Captain Rhodes slid into the war room, nodding at Stark and then walking over to stand near him.

“To the chase then,” Stark spoke up. “What’s this about.”

The Colonel who had convened the meeting stood up. “Sirs, we have been alerted of an issue at the prison.”

Stark immediately sat up. 

“It appears as if there has been a break in.”

“A break in?” Stark said quietly, leaning forwards. His face turned dark.

“More accurately,” the Colonel had the skill to at least look ashamed. “A break out.”

Stark stood up so fast his chair flew backwards, smacking against the floor. “Damn her!” He yelled, turning around the room and quickly leaving. “Damn her eyes!”

* * *

James Rhodes was rooted to the spot, eyes wide. He didn’t move, even after Stark stormed out of the room. As if taken, he realized that there had been no guards at the entrance to the prison last night, that the sound of approaching watch had not been signaled first by a bosun’s whistle. 

He only hesitated for a second before spinning on his heel, running out as well. He sprinted to the stables by the water and grabbing the first horse that looked hale and had a saddle already mounted. 

Rhodes ignored the calls of the stable hand and raced through Washington, flying past the mall and heading toward the Potomac. He was almost as out of breath as his mount as he reached the river’s banks. He frowned, seeing nothing. He still had a few more miles left in his horse, and urged the gelding down the fledgling parkway that led to Mount Vernon. 

He urged his horse on, leaning over the neck of the beast as it galloped. He kept an eye on the river always, but it wasn’t long before he let his horse trot. He barely made it to the apple lawns of the first president when he had to dismount and let the beast rest. At least he had made it to the south side of Dodge Creek. It had been an hour and he couldn’t push it further,but still, as he looked on the river he found nothing of note.

He jogged to the edge of the property, past the revered grounds, onto the rocky shores of the Potomac. He rounded the small point created by the Pohick bay and his breath caught in his throat. 

_There it was!_ There it was. He breathed in deeply, eyes wide, watching the bold stern of the _Hala Star_ round the corner of the far point. The ship was too far away to hail or even see properly, but there it was, maroon sails and all. 

He laughed brightly, raising his hand to shield gainst the rising sun. The _Star_ was just about to turn the point, about to slip out of sight forever. Patting his jacket, he was dismayed to realize he had no eyeglass, and his boots were already in the Potomac. This was it.

This was the last time he’d see her. 

He raised his hand upwards, an open palm, a sign of peace, of hail, of presence, and although he could not see the figures on the stern of the ship, he thought he saw a bright flash, a mirrorglass, a mark of some kind. He kept that thought close to his chest as the ship disappeared behind the tall trees of coastal Virginia. Rhodes swallowed, and then closed his eyes. The sun warmed his skin, the spray of the river against the rocks sinking into his pants above the knee. He could smell the breeze that even now beckoned Carol out to sea. It was freedom, and he did not resent her for it. 

Almost ten minutes passed before he turned to leave the shore, walking back towards the capital and whatever orders he had waiting there. 

* * *

At the day turned to dusk, Carol finally faced faced the ocean. She grinned, laughing loudly, and then ordered all sails tight as they would stretch. It seemed as it the very timbers of the boat thrummed with the wild energy of her captain. 

She again abandoned the wheel to Ulysses, and with the help of lines and seawater, nearly flew across the deck to the bow of the schooner. She climbed up the rigging, clinging to the slippery teak and newly repaired lines. The crew had sailed out of Virginia Beach and found the _Hala Star_ floating on her side in the ocean. They had righted her, drained her, fixed the deck and mast, and worked nonstop for a month to get the ship back to speed. 

And here it was, the _Hala Star,_ sailing as if it were her first day off the dock. The schooner was skipping across the waves, cutting through them with little knockback against the keel. Carol clung to the sails as she stepped up on the railing, and then danced across the bowsprit. 

She held onto the flying jib with one hand, the other clutched tightly around the forestay. The sun was at her back, pushing her forward as much as the wind. The _Hala Star_ cut through the chop with ease, the waves rising above the bowsprit, splashing up to soak her legs. Carol hadn’t stopped grinning since Walter and Jean-Paul had broken her out of prison, since she had first set eyes on the _Hala Star_ , waiting for her at the Georgetown Port. It had been nestled in among the ironclads, where the women of her crew had taken care of the mangy guard, while Puck and Chyel had dismantled every steering system on every Navy ship. 

The water was freezing, but each drop was a diamond, each new wave a promise. It might not be the way of the future, it might not be hope; but it was the choice to press forward, to sail ever onwards, to make her own way in a world that might not like her, might not want her, might have no use for her, except as a legend.

The _Star_ hit a larger crest and plunged downwards. Carol rose from the ocean like a figurehead, clutching the stays that attached to the bowsprit. She was laughing in delight, eyes wide and sparkling as she watched the world fall away beneath her. 

Ever further, ever faster. Carol gasped as the wind hit her again, the chill soaking into her bones. The horizon came up fast and she grinned, her arms full of power, legs full of grace, facing ahead with defiance and conviction in every taunt line of her body. She knew that she would always be destined to aim so high. 


End file.
